Sixteen
When I was six years old, my twenty two year old sister told me, “you don’t want to grow up, trust me.” But at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to grow up. I wanted to be tall like her, so I could reach the top shelf where the cookies were hidden. I envied her maturity and composure. When I was eight, I wanted to be nine because the girl who lived in the house behind mine boasted about her seniority as she was a year older than me. She received homework twice a week and her parents didn’t scold her for using the word stupid. I wanted homework, I wanted to use the word stupid. When I was ten, I wanted to be eleven because ten was the first double digit. Eleven seemed like the real deal. When I was twelve, I wanted to be thirteen because thirteen was the age that turned a tween into a teen. When I was fourteen, I wanted to be fifteen because I hated being the same age as some eighth graders when I was in ninth grade. When I was fifteen years and 25 days old